The Sugar Quill
Author: Author By Night  Story: 'Twas the (Eventful) Night Before Christmas  Chapter: Default
The distribution of this story is for personal use only. Any other form of distribution is prohibited without the consent of the author.

Note: I posted this on the filks thread, and decided to post it as a fic too. J I’ve changed it a little, thanks to my beta reader, Elanor Gamgee.

So you all are clear – the narrator is Ginny, meaning this is Harry/Ginny (though no fluff or anything). Just so you know! (Oh, and I wouldn’t suggest any younger kids read this…)



Twas the night before Christmas,

            And all through the house

            Not a creature was stirring

            Not even a mouse.

            The stockings were floating

            Levitated in air

And I knew that it was likely

We’d find Dungbombs in there.

            (Thanks, Fred and George!)

            The children were (supposedly) snug in their beds

            While visions of ice mice danced in their heads.

            Harry in his blue nightrobes, me pulling back my hair

            Were resting after settling more sibling warfare

            When in the living room there arose such a clatter

            I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter!

            Put on my housecoat, ran out the door…

            When I got downstairs, “Father Christmas” was on the floor!

            “Not midnight yet, too early for you!”

            Said my dear little Melissa, aka Cindy Lou.

            Patrick was pulling on Fred’s leg.

            “You’re not Father Christmas – you’re as jolly as a peg!”

            I knew that I should intervene…

            But this was such a priceless scene!

            “I left a tad early, hohoho,

            And I’m on a diet – look, just let me go!”

            Melissa and Patrick backed away, and Fred stood,

            Possibly as quickly as he could.

            “So why are you early?” Patrick asked.

            “Did you do what Mummy does, and multi-task?”

            Fred blinked. “I suppose so, yes.

            Now are those enough gifts, or do you want the rest?”

            “What if he’s not Father Christmas?” Melissa asked in a whisper.

            Patrick tugged on his reindeer slipper.

            “Now, before we believe it’s you, what’s the capital of France?”

            Fred smiled. “Paris, my precious smarty pants.”

            “I think it’s him,” Melissa clarified.

            But Patrick was not satisfied.

            “Where are the reindeer? Prancer and Comet? Rudolph, did he get sick and-”

            I rushed in at once, needless to say;

            He’d horrified me a bit much for the day.

            “Now you two, leave him alone,

            Take your presents, and let him go home.”

            They hung their heads, looking ashamed;

You’d think I was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!

            Patrick looked at me. “I simply thought,

            That though he said he was Father Christmas, he was not!”

            “Well, now, prove yourself,” I said with a wink.

            Then hoped my children’s dreams wouldn’t sink.

            Fred gave me the coldest of glares

            And then looked at my children’s hopeful stares.

            “Uh, yes, my children – er, follow me,

            I’m as real as you will ever be!

            I will warn you that the reindeer were tired tonight,

            But invisible Horses helped with the flight!”

            Father Chr – I mean, Fred – led us outside,      

            Still not quite failing his North Polian guise!

He Apparated on the roof, got on a sleigh,

The sight of that made my day!

            Fred gave us a wave, and shouted as he flew into the night:

            “Merry Christmas to all – and your Mummy was right!”



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